Page 5 of The Maid

He reached for her hand and pulled her gently toward him. "You know…" He kissed her knuckles, softly. "You're the only thing stopping me from packing up all my shit and leaving?"

"Don't leave," she said, realizing at just that moment how much she meant it. She really didn't want him to leave. Unfortunately, she didn't just mean 'don't leave now', she meant 'don't leave, ever', even if it was just wishful thinking. She sat on his lap and hugged him. "Stay the rest of the summer."

He pushed her hair to the side and landed sweet kisses along her neck. "I think the longer I stay the harder it's going to be to go."

"Forget your dad. I'll keep you distracted." She kissed him hard, her arms tightening around him.

"I wasn't taking about my dad, Addie. But, if you're looking for ways to distract me, I'm all game, Addie baby."

2

TEN YEARS LATER

Gunther sat in a booth in a darkened corner of the hottest night club in Miami Beach, two beautiful blondes on either side of him and a chilled bottle of vodka on the table. He was just getting ready to make it a truly memorable night with the inseparable and well-known socialites, Candy and Kandi. Already half-drunk and practically mauling him under the table, they were as close to a sure-thing as they came.

"Gun, my man! What are you doing here?" A very familiar voice yelled over the loud thumping music.

"George!" Gun hollered as he reached over the table to bump fists with his good friend and defensive lineman, George "the Truck" Devereaux. "If anyone asks, you didn't see me here," he said while pouring clear liquid into a shot glass and sliding it over to George.

"Hi, I'm Kandi with a K and this is my friend Candy with a C," she reached over the table, displaying her full rack to George. George took her hand and kissed the top, then smiled at her friend who was busy typing something into her phone.

"Yo, Gun," George said, lifting his chin at something behind Gun. Gun looked over his shoulder to see a group of spectators taking photos with their cell phones. "I think your cover's blown, buddy," George said.

"Fuck!" He couldn't get in trouble again. If his coach, found out, he'd be benched. Just two weeks ago he'd been arrested for public intoxication and the month before that he'd gotten a black eye and subsequently fined for getting into a brawl in a bar. All of it had been dealt with very quietly, thanks to a lot of money and even more connections. In Gun's defense, the asshole the previous month deserved the bloody lip for talking shit about the team, who had recently lost the Super Bowl.

Using his hips to shuffle Kandi out of the booth, Gun slipped out. "Whatdya think was going to happen, man?" George asked. "You're sitting in the VIP section at Pyramid with these two beautiful ladies. The most attention-seeking women in all of Miami." George smiled and winked at the women. "You think you were going to go unseen?" George said with a chuckle as he poured himself another drink and slid into the booth between Candy and Kandi.

"Shit. Couch's going to have my ass." Gun said as he signaled for the waitress to bring the check. Without so much as a glance at the bill, he handed her a credit card. The music beat loudly, hot sweaty bodies were pressed tightly against each other, and the strobe lights were unexpectedly beginning to make his head hurt.

"Come back here, sweetie," Candy yelled over the music. Suddenly, all those fake blonde extensions and those tits spilling out of a skin-tight dress didn't look appealing. Those tits were not worth screwing up his future. Neither was Kandi’s mouth-watering ass.

Why had he decided to come here tonight? He had vowed to lay low until things in the tabloids cooled off. Instead, he'd gone to see his filthy rich elitist family that afternoon for his aunt's sixtieth birthday party. Party being a very loose definition of the word. It had been in a Country Club, they had had a string quartet, there had been lunch and some wine. There was small talk and highbrow backhanded compliments. They'd thrown their typical jabs about his wasted life playing professional football instead of taking over the family business, and the next thing he'd known, he was walking into Pyramid, Miami's trendiest night club in a sea of night clubs, ready to trade in his wine buzz for a full-blown Vodka bender.

Seeing the camera phones everywhere had been a dose of cold water.

In a blue wig and skin-tight, and dangerously short white dress, the waitress came over and handed him the leather check holder and leaned into his ear. "This is awkward, but your credit card was declined. Do you have another?" she whispered.

He had millions, no thanks to his billionaire family. It was all due to a very successful career in the NFL. So, how in the hell could his black American Express be declined? Feeling annoyed, he opened his wallet, took out another card, and handed it over. There were still stragglers hanging around with cameras and cell phones and this was not something he needed in the media.

Gunther McCall heir to the McCall fortune and wide receiver of the Miami Tornados can't pay his bill at local night club.

Or

Socialites Candy and Kandi, leave Gunther McCall for George Jones Jr. when his credit card is declined.

The thought made him cringe. His coach would have his ass for publicly humiliating the team, and his father would give him an earful for humiliating the family.

George now sat where Gun had been sitting not ten minutes earlier. Gun's mood shifted from 'ready for a night of drinking and fucking' to 'just fucking pissed off' while his friend, drank his Vodka and flirted with his two women. The waitress returned with a look that said she was both concerned and embarrassed.

"What the fuck?" He snatched the leather folder from her hand and looked at the bill for the first time. Perhaps, three thousand two hundred and eighty-two dollars in the hour he'd been at Pyramid was excessive, but that was a mere drop in the bucket compared to how much money he made. "ATM?" He asked over the music and the waitress pointed to the back of the club.

Irritated as all hell, Gun stomped to the back, sidestepping and trying his best to ignore his fans along the way. He swiped his card into the machine, punched in his pin number and attempted to take out the maximum allowed. The machine paused for half a second and then a big red sign flashed on the screen. Declined.

"What the hell is going on?" He grunted as he slammed his palms on the machine, causing it to shake. With each step he took back to the table, his mood soured further. "George, man, something's wrong with my cards. Spot me and I'll get you back tomorrow." He asked knowing full well that George had more than sufficient funds to cover the bill.

Too preoccupied with the women and the booze, George waved him off as Gun tossed the bill on the table and stormed off.

A ten-dollar taxi ride later, about all the cash he had on him, Gun stumbled into his four thousand square foot apartment in an exclusive high rise in Miami Beach. He kicked off his shoes, unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it on the floor. Knowing it was too late to call Mario, his financial adviser, instead, he poured himself a glass of whiskey and went in search of his iPad.